Like Father, Like Daughter
by All-The-British-Fandoms1313
Summary: Sherlock's daughter returns to Baker street, and with her comes a whole new generation of evil. Post-Reichenbach Rated T for Violence and Langue.
1. Chapter 1

**WE DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK**

It was a dreary day; the sky no more brilliant a blue that polished gun metal and the sun no more brilliant a gold than tarnished silver. The fragile beads of rain shattered, each in their own way, against all the roofs, leaving their mark as nothing more than a drip from a roofline and a ping from where they struck. There was a certain beauty to it; the rain. It wiped away the dirt and filth from the air and the mind and left everything gleaming, as if turned to crystal by their touch. But rain also has certain wretchedness in its existence; it was the heavens' tears striking earth, touching every soul with their sadness.

Some are not as acutely affected as others; people who have lightness in their hearts might see rain as silver falling from soft, billowing clouds. But those whose hearts are saddened may think of rain as another problem; another reason to be morose and melancholy.

The man starring at the rain wasn't sad or depressed; he was empty. To him, the rain was a reminder; nothing more than a horrid memorandum of love that was lost and swept away with the shattering of crystal raindrops on bloodied pavement. He stared at the leaden spheres in resentment, reveling in memories long since passed. He heard the landlady hustling about downstairs, cleaning and cooking and various other activities a landlady would generally spend her time with. He felt the old chair beneath him and the cool air around his face, trying so hard to still smell the long over experiments never again to be conducted; to hear the violin being played by the window and the gun shots fired at the wall.

The only thing that brought John Watson out of his thoughts and into the present moment was the short burst of the doorbell. That quick sound only brought back more memories; when they would both get a glint in their eye and look at each other, the word "Client!" silently passing between them.

He shook his head, displacing those thoughts and silently went back to starring at the ashen diamond rain – whoever was at the door could wait. John didn't even bother thinking that the person at the front stoop might be Sherlock; he stopped that false-hope over two years ago.

The bell didn't ring again; whoever it was must have left. John returned to his misery, oblivious of the figure with curly, black hair and startling blue eyes silently walking up the steps, lock picks in one hand and a soft, dark blue scarf in the other.

The figure hung the scarf on the rack and silently placed the organized set of tools back in their pocket. Then, with the utmost ease and gracefulness, the one with the brilliant eyes slowly swung open the door with one gloved hand pressing against the dirty, frosted glass and silently stepped inside, only enough to lean against the door frame with ease.

The figure took a solitary breath before speaking two words that would change both of their lives forever.

"Hello, John."


	2. Chapter 2

**Woo first real chapter up! We do not own Sherlock. **

He froze; the man was ice for tangible seconds before cracking and melting stone exterior, leaving only the soldier whose practiced hand shot out to his handgun, lying on the table next to him. He wasted no time standing up quickly and whipping the gun around to face the lone figure at the door.  
"Who the hell are you!?" he shouted, his face tight with pain from the malfunction in his leg. He held the black, menacing firearm with a steady hand, which was more than could be said for his words that, though loud, had a quiver in them.  
"Guess." said the figure, still leaning against the door frame, gracefully tugging off her leather gloves and setting them on a pile of books, looking entirely at ease.  
John paused, waiting a moment to tighten the grip on his gun and to gather his thoughts.  
"I don't know. Just tell me."  
She seemed to ponder that for a moment, before walking over to the low cough and flopping down on it in an acted huff.  
"Perhaps I'll give you a hint, then?" she said from the couch, lightly touching her fingertips together under her chin, casting small shadows onto her pale and clear face.  
She waited a moment, while john's hand moved with her, keeping his gun trained on the light forehead partially covered by black, lazy curls.  
"Well?" she asked, a hint of amusement adding to her clear and slightly low voice.  
"Well, what!?" John exclaimed, becoming more angry by the word; this stranger was far too much of a ghost of Sherlock than could be good for accepting that a ghost is all he will ever be.  
"Ah, my dear Watson, as ever you see but do not observe." She said, shutting her eyes, cutting off the bright blue from the world, showing only her thick, dark eyelashes and stark black eyeliner.  
"Stop it. Stop this now, whoever you are. Stop impersonating a person you will never be!" John shouted, walking over to the couch where she calmly lay, as if asleep.  
Her eyes shot open, the electric cerise in their hearts making John flinch at the memory of those same eyes staring back at him from the rooftop.  
"I'll never be?" she asked. "Take a look at me – make a deduction. Give me a bit of logic behind that statement." She said, swinging her legs off of the couch and onto the floor, the leather soles of her combat boots gently touching it. She pulled herself up and stood on the opposite side of the coffee table, her arms wide and eyebrows raised.  
John said nothing, though his finger slowly backed away from the trigger.  
"No?" she said coyly, calmly waking around to John's side of the table.  
"Perhaps," she continued, their noses level and only a foot apart, "you could give me a try at you?"  
"No. Never." John replied, his voice firm and resolute. His finger returned to the trigger.  
"Well, short of shooting me, you can't really keep me from talking, so I'll just talk. Here's what I know – I know that you're an army doctor, something you're rather proud of so you were probably of pretty good rank. I know that you've been home for at least three years, probably more like four, but your limp hasn't gotten better, so it must be at least partially psychosomatic. I know that you're been depressed for a rather long time, but whatever happened you blame yourself for so you won't help yourself. Given the severity of the depression, I would guess that someone very close to you died, probably tragically and given the fact that he's not here presently, I can only guess that it was none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I also know that you two were very close, probably more than just friends.  
"Now tell me. Did I get anything wrong?"The gun dropped to the floor, falling from John's now shaking hand; he stumbled backwards, away from the figure who had just read his past four years like a nicely printed book, one that held all his secrets.

She raised her black eyebrows, reading her answer without a single word being said.  
She knelt to the ground, picking the gun up from its earthly rest. She efficiently examined it, popping the clip out and back in again, before flying around and firing a single shot at the nose of the smiley face watching her from the wall.  
Perfect.  
"Nice gun." She said at John, who was still stunned and not bothering to listen.  
"The recoil might get annoying after too many shots, but other than that it's rather ideal." The young women stated, sliding out the clip and stuffing it into her black leather jacket, making it rub against the lock picks and her own illegal sidearm.  
"What…?" John asked, coming out of his daze into the washed out, shimmering light filtering in through the rain and dirty window.  
"Here." She said, handing him his bullet less gun by the barrel. He took it and put it on the stack of magazines on the small table.  
"Who are you?" he finally asked.  
"Anthea Holmes; pleasure to meet you."

-  
"Uhh, John Watson." He said, shaking her outstretched hand with a nervous vibration.  
"I know. Doctor John Hamish Watson." She said, letting the name roll off of her tongue, sounding like royalty from her high class accent, which matched neither her attire nor attitude. She wore combat boots over dark, tight jeans; her black leather jacket covering most of her vintage t-shirt. All the black she wore matched her hair, which was curling lazily at haphazard angles, framing her pale, regal face. She kept her head high; confident and no more than a touch cocky – letting everyone know that she was probably smarter than them and not to be messed with.  
"Why…why are you here?" John asked, incredulous.  
"Got bored. Went exploring. Wanted to find people." She stated with a convincing sense of ease.  
"What people? Why? Who are you?"  
"People? People who might help me. Why?" She sighed and pondered a moment. "Because I need information. And I told you who I am. Perhaps you don't recognize the significance of my surname yet." She stated curtly, walking across the room to the fireplace; she didn't so much of glance at the large mirror, rather walking directly to the skull on the mantle.  
"Friend of yours?" she asked, picking it up by the base of the cranium and held it up, facing her.  
"Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well, John. Good, don't you think?" she asked with a smirk.  
John couldn't help but give the slightest of grins at her antics.  
"So," she began, having replaced the skull and now looking directly at john and leaning against the mantle, "Have you figured out who I am yet?"  
"Tell me I'm wrong. Really- I hope you're not who I think you are." John said, getting a cornered look in his eyes that made him look more like the soldier he is than the wounded civilian he pretended to be.  
"You're not stupid, John. You're probably right. Now – down to business." She said, standing up straight and planting her feet, pulling out her own illegal sidearm.  
"Where is he?" she asked in a flat tone, the barrel of the semi-automatic aimed at John's heart  
"Where is who?"  
"My father."  
"Who?"  
"Where is Sherlock Holmes?"

John stiffened – his back went straight and he flinched at the pain in his leg and his heart.

"He's dead." Were the only words he could spit out on the topic.  
"That's interesting, because I have a very reliable source that says he's not." she stated, walking nonchalantly to the window, looking at the book shelves, seeing every detail. She starred at the spine of one of the volumes before moving on to the large pane of glass.  
"No." John said, voice shaking, "He's dead. He's gone."  
"Umm, no. You're lying." The younger Holmes said, appreciating the mercury rain falling from the brilliant, gaseous clouds.  
"I'm a rubbish liar."  
"I know." She said, turning her back to the window and raising her gun again. "Why do you think I don't believe you?"  
"Because you're an idiot." John fired back.  
She raised her eyebrows and grinned in amusement.  
"Good…" she said, sounding like a proper vestige of her father when he was making John figure something out.  
"You haven't lost your bite." She observed, the gun lowering and put back in her pocket.  
"So…" John began, "Sherlock has a young daughter."  
"Correct. 14."  
He let out a breathy laugh of disbelief.  
"A 14 year old with a handgun?" he asked incredulously.  
"Well, no fooling you. But I was wondering if you could tell me what happened." She said walking over to the chair across from John – Sherlock's chair – and flopping down into its soft embrace unceremoniously.  
"Oh, please sit. I'm not royalty."  
John just frowned and deftly sat across from her.  
"So. What happened? To my father." She specifically avoided using his name.  
"Do you read the papers?" John asked, avoiding the question.  
"The papers print what people want to have confirmed as fact, and people didn't want there to be someone so clever out there. I've learned not to trust the media."  
"Telly?"  
"Same problem." She states, daring john to contradict her. John took a moment to reply; she glanced over at the bookshelf.  
"Yes, fine. It was Moriarty."  
"Moriarty was a fake."  
John flinched.  
"Moriarty was an actor." She continued. "He was a hired stunt double to act like a villain to satisfy one psychopath's boredom."  
"MORIARTY WAS REAL." John shouted, having said the words so many times before.  
"He was a fake. Hell, they were both fakes. Damn – fakeception" she said calmly before going into her small realization, pretending not to notice John seething across from her.  
"Moriarty…was real. He was real and no one will ever convince me that he didn't exist." John spat out rapidly.  
Anthea raised her hands in mock surrender.

"Fine. Just wanted to make sure you knew what you were talking about. So…Moriarty created Richard Brooke and made everyone believe it to get rid of Sherlock." She said, waiting a moment to contemplate it. "Elegant." She whispered.  
"Burn him." John said.  
"Sorry?"  
"Moriarty didn't want Sherlock gone. He wanted him burned."  
This made the young women pause. "Oh." Was all she could say.  
"And now it's been what…almost two and half years since he fell?" she said, her tone shifting from depressed to interested.  
"You should know that."  
"Oh, I do know that. Just double checking – I'm not good with time." She said, pushing back her sleeve to look at her watch on the underside of her slender wrist.  
"Oh, dear." She exclaimed, "Would you look at the time. I really should be off. Oh, but one last thing. A favor to ask you from the daughter of a very close…friend." She said with a wink.  
"I'm not going to help you."  
"Ah, we both know that that's not quite true. You'll come around. So – the favor. Ever since Sherlock jumped, I have been more than a bit…nomadic. Gotten very close to my father's famous homeless network. So, I was wondering if I could stay at 221B for a bit." She said, starting to stand up and walk toward the kitchen, as if attempting to figure out if the small flat was worth her inhabitance.  
"You want to live here." John said, turning around in his chair to face he, a frown on his face.  
"In essence, yes. I'll gladly accept the couch and I'll probably not be around the majority of the day, so you won't have to put up with me all that much. There might be experiments run from time to time, so try not to touch anything that looks suspicious. How do you feel about singing? Sometimes I start singing while I think. I also sometimes don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Well, probably not. You were living with the world's only Consulting Detective and London's best high functioning sociopath for a year, so you're probably used to it now. And you were a soldier – living with Sherlock would be like the battlefield.  
"So, yes. I would like to live here. I could even pay rent!" she said with a smile, finishing her cursory appraisal of the kitchen/laboratory and leaning against the door frame.  
"Rent. Right…good. Uhh…You know what? Don't even bother. Just don't get in the way and you can stay here." He said, apparently baffled that he said that at all.  
She grinned and walked over to the door, deftly plucking her black leather gloves from the top of the pile of books.

"Lovely! So I'll be off for a few hours, back in time for supper. I'll get food. Chinese? I know the best restaurants. I'll pay – let's deem it a housewarming gift. It's been rather long since this place has had much life in it; could use some warmth. So, be back in a tick. I'll text you if anything happens. Don't worry, I have the number. So, yes, goodbye!" she finished with a flourish, marching out the door and down the stairs, eyes blazing triumphantly.  
She walked out of the flat, into the rain that was no longer a crash of silver; it was now a mist of freezing steam, one that umbrellas could never repel and no quality of coat could quell. She tugged on her gloves and let herself smile; living on the run and under the radar would end with the hospitality of one lonely man and the specific genealogy of one young woman. She walked west over the damp and dreary sidewalks, passing the damp and dreary people and reading every damp and dreary secret that they so obviously failed to hide.  
It took only minutes to get to where she used to live. It really was a very nice shed, about nine feet square, containing only a modest change of clothes, a mattress, and a well beaten leather shoulder bag that she quickly swung over her head, narrowly avoiding hitting the ceiling, and onto her left shoulder. She opened it and stuffed in the change of clothes that she had in a small box on the floor as well as several more clips for her sidearm. She checked her bag to make sure it still had all of its lovely surprises and tools and set off, affixing the old padlock to the chain on the door and walking away, onto another chapter of life.  
She went about her errands; first to the uniform store where she bought some skirts and blouses for school which she would soon be attending again and then to a second hand store where she bought new jeans, a couple jackets and a new pair of laces for her well worn and well used combat boots. She then set off to the Chinese restaurant, getting takeout from the kindly, older man whom she knew well from her time running from the police as a truant, and then caught a cab back to 221B.  
She stepped out and paid the cabbie, calmly sorting her things and the food into a manner that was more conducive to walking when she saw the faintest flash of the dark coat, and then the black hair and the all-seeing eyes. She stared at the man across the street, knowing exactly who he was and who he was to her.  
"Hello, father." She whispered into the slight wind, where it was stolen and floated away. She gave a slight smirk and walked back to her new home.

"So, how is it?" she asked John who was happily chewing on his third eggroll.  
"Verrrhy goowd."  
"Ah, right. Of course. I should have expected that kind of enthusiasm." She snarked, holding up a pot sticker between her chopsticks before popping it into her mouth swallowed.

"I said, it's very good." He reiterated, making a feeble attempt at regaining some sort of pride.  
"Ah, well glad you agree. So, how do you think this will be working from now on? I'll be out all day – starting school again in a few weeks and I'm sure I could find some way to spend my time until then." She said, starting to put away the leftover food in the fridge, giving a slight glance at the top of the cupboards.  
"Oh, well…I don't really know. Perhaps we'll just stay out of each other's way…" he suggested, grabbing another eggroll from the container before she took it away and threw it unceremoniously into the refrigerator.  
"Well, works for me. Whatever." She said, finishing putting away the food and walking to the couch before flopping lazily down on it, rolling over and laying on her side.  
"You," she began, "should be getting to bed and actually sleeping because I know that you generally don't. Good night!" She said, shutting her eyes and waving at john to go upstairs. He stood a minute, looking quizzically at the odd young woman lying on his couch. He just was there for several minutes, simply attempting to understand her before quietly limping away.  
"John?" she called from the couch, sitting up and staring at him in the darkness that the room had been plunged into with the flick of a switch.  
"Yes?"  
"I just wanted you to know – The lovely dreams are worth the wretched nightmares."


	3. Chapter 3

"Pat pat." The sound of Johns feet in the kitchen told her it was time to get up.

'I hate waking up on Mondays… well I hate waking up any day.' Anthea thought as she swung her feet over the couch and began rummaging through her small bag of clothes, looking for her blue plaid skirt, which she despised, her white shirt, which she absolutely abhorred, and her well loved combat boots and leather jacket.

'God I hate school uniforms.' she thought. Then she went to the bathroom to get dressed, all the while her sensitive hears hearing John in the kitchen talking to someone,

"Thanks Lestrade, for having him take her to school," she could hear John say in the same melancholy tone he always spokes in.

She stepped out of the bathroom and went down the hall where she saw John eating a piece of toast with jam with another one on the table to his right; she picked it up and ripped the crusts off violently before nibbling contently on a now tender corner.

"Alex, Lestrade's boy, will be showing you the way to school today. He looks like a smaller version of Lestrade." John said with an indifferent tone, and not even looking away from his news paper.

"Hmm… I think I can manage, without you trying to help me. Thanks. Well I better get going - he'll be here soon, good day," she said, pulling on her jacket, gloves and bag before subtly reaching for her handgun that was on the counter.

"Wait…" John said. "Put your gun on the table, then you may leave." He said politely but with a hint of annoyance.

"Why?" said Anthea. "It's not like I am going to take it out at school, it's just protection if I get jumped or that Moriarty comes after me, even though all of you think he's dead."

"Because school takes these things very seriously and I don't feel like getting you out of jail for possession of a firearm. Now put your gun on the table so you can leave." Said John in a stern voice, then putting his paper down. "Now I will let you keep it around here, which still isn't legal, but I'll allow it."

"Fine," Anthea said her tone snarky and sneering as she slammed the gun down on the hardwood table, "but you would have let Sherlock do it." then she turned on her heel and walked out.

'I know John doesn't like me much and the only reason I am here is because I remind him of my dad, but I don't feel a bit bad about wanting to take my gun with me…' Anthea thought, before being interrupted by a kind, elderly voice.

"Good morning, dear," Mrs. Hudson said with a smile.

"Good morning Mrs. Hudson," Anthea replied with a slight grin. Anthea had always liked Mrs. Hudson; she reminded her of her grandma who died when she was 8. "I better get going; I can see Alex walking this way, good day."

"Bye, dear! Have a nice day at school," Mrs. Hudson replied.

Anthea began to walk towards the lad, nearly making him walk right past her. And he would have, had she not said "Hello Alex,"

He just stopped in his tracks and turned to look at her.

'Wow…' he thought, 'She does look a lot like him - same hair, eyes, and the cheek bones are a dead giveaway and I am not even going to ask how she knows who I am.' He was too afraid that deduction might be hereditary and she just read his name off of his rumpled cuff or dusty shoes.

"Hello, Anthea. May I ask how you knew who I was?"Alex replied. 'Oh shit… what have done, asking her that?' he thought to himself.

"Simple! You kind of fit John's description of Lestrade," she paused and continued talking fast this time, "You are also wearing relatively the same uniform as me only the pants are a dark blue, and you also have the same build as a 14-15 year old teenage male. Your backpack is also looks like you have stuffed it frantically because you got up late and the dark circles under your eyes indicate lack of sleep, which are some of the characteristics of a high school student though you only seem to have the brain of a 7th grader, those are my deductions, did I miss anything?" She said in a confident tone, her observations being fired through a fully automatic set of vocal chords.

"Nothing… except the fact I did not put those papers in there that way - it was my dad, and he is very unorganized, and I am actually quite smart for my age due to the fact I am already two years ahead of the rest of the class." Alex replied, shooting a look at her and her jab at his dignity.

"Yes, I am getting better…Good job me. And I'll just ignore that last bit." she said arrogantly.

"Well it is quite amazing you can tell that much about a person," Alex says with tiny smiling. And for the first time in months she was truly happy that someone didn't think she made it all up, but would never show it.

"Shall we go?" she said.

When they arrived at school Anthea notice it was older; at least 100 years old and kind of her style. It was at least three stories high, with arched windows on the third floor. The majority of the architecture was brick and there were a few trees in the front of the school, looking very good for climbing on, some branches arching high enough to be able to drop from them onto the roof if some daring student decided to get some adrenaline into their circulation.

"So how do you like it?" asked Alex.

"It's okay," Anthea replied with an indifferent tone and began to walk to walk to her first class, English. 'I don't like English,' she thought as she sat in the third row. A girl came and sat down next to her.

"Hi," she said.

"Hello," Anthea replied not really want to talk anymore, but she could tell this girl was going to be persistent, 'I am going to show off she thought.' "As I can see you have been fighting with someone due to your puffy eyes, that indicates crying and there is a hidden tone of annoyance in your voice, the person you were fighting with was with your mother because your father is in prison, I can tell by the picture slightly falling out of your wallet that was taken in a cement cafeteria, you have also been typing quickly, very quickly by the way you are holding your wrists, you were trying to finish today's essay, which you will most likely get a poor score on grammar due to the fact you were typing so fast ." She turned so she sitting towards the front leaned back and put her hands together and rested her figure tips under her chin.

"Impressive," the girl replied, dually astounded and not bothering to hide it. "By the way, my name's Rene, and your name?"

"Thank you Rene; the name's Anthea Holmes."

The teacher walked in, "Quite down everyone, my name is Ms. Morrison, now I know you're all back from summer vacation but we need to get to work." Ms. Morrison took out an attendance sheet and everyone groaned but Anthea "It's only for the first day, legal reasons and all that." The she began to call out names.

"Alex Lestrade?"

"Here" he replied

"Sebastian Smith?"

"Here."

"Rene Frender?"

"Here"

"Anthea Holmes?"

Everyone turn their heads to the name Holmes except Alex and Sebastian.

"Here." Athena said. They still stared. "Why are you all gawking at me? Just because my last name is Holmes doesn't mean I am his daughter; oh and by the way the only reason you took attendance is because you saw my name and wanted to see who I was," She said, staring down the teacher – daring to be crossed, laughed at, or contradicted.

There were a few murmurs of, "Is she for real? Who is this girl? Is she his daughter? But she said she wasn't." After the teacher calmed everyone down, class continued as normal, allowing a blissful walk through her mind garden to ensue, affectively tuning out the tediousness of conjugating verbs.

At lunch Anthea took a seat at the back corner table, hoping not to be bothered. Naturally, she was bothered constantly. Alex and Rene walked up, absently chatting about nothing.

"May we sit here?" Alex asked, gesturing to across the table from where Anthea was, enthralled in her textbook and not bothering to eat anything.

"If you like. You lot are less annoying then the others," Anthea replied, not even looking up from her hematology book to confirm their identity.

Knowing that this was as much approval as they were going to get, they sat down.

"So what are you guys doing after school?" Alex asked. Anthea could tell he wanted to share something, but she doubted he would.

"Well, I have to go check out a new flat around the downtown area; my mum will tell me where we're going later." Rene replied happily, biting contently into a forkful of pasta she brought from home.

"What are you doing after school, Anthea?" Alex inquired, specifically looking anywhere other than her eyes; apparently, the ceiling and his shoes held special interest.

"I am going to go home, why do you ask?" Anthea stated looking at him to really see what he was saying.

"Oh no reason." He replied.

"No reason..? Hmmm very interesting due to the little beads of sweat forming at your hairline, you're stressed about something, and you failed to indicate where you were going, implying that you were going to ask one or both of us out." Anthea said, swinging her legs over the bench and getting up, going to class just as the bell rang.

At the end of the day, students were either at the bus stop or going one of 2 ways home; one towards downtown, and another towards a small neighborhood in the opposite direction. Anthea, Alex and Rene walked towards downtown, making little or no conversation. After a few blocks of plodding along the dull, grey streets, Alex took a right hand turn towards the police station. They were only a few blocks away from 221B when Anthea asked, "Where is this flat, you and your mum are supposed to be visiting at?"

"Someplace called 221C Baker Street," Rene replied with a sigh

"Hmm, okay then."

Right before she got to the flat, Rene stopped to talk to someone, most likely her mother. She walked in the door where Mrs. Hudson had already greeted Anthea with a pleasant "Good afternoon, dear, please don't shoot that gun in the house… we have guests." before suddenly stopping, her eyes looking to see a girl about her age in a bit of shock, all of her disbelief focused on the younger Holmes.

"You live here? And you have a gun?!" Rene exclaimed, appearing incredulous though actually more fascinated than frightened.

"Yes, you sound just like John." Anthea replied, curtly and efficiently taking off her coat and hanging it up on a hook, next to her father's scarf.

"Do you two know each other?" asked her Mum

"Yes, we met today at school and, surprisingly enough, your daughter doesn't annoy me to the umpteenth degree like the majority of the civilized world; the name's Anthea Holmes, and your name is…? "

A little taken a back from her surname, she recovered quickly, "My name is Melissa Adl-Frender." She corrected, hurrying to make right her mistake. Anthea gave the slightest of frowns at the implications.

"Now, shall we see that flat?" said Mrs. Hudson, trying to get rid of the awkward feeling in the room.

'Adl… that sounds familiar…' Anthea thought. She followed them to see the flat - it was old and run down, with nothing in it; she leaned up against the wall and put her hands together, the tips of her figures under her chin. She could hear Rene talking to her mum about how she can deduce things. Anthea gave a quick half smile.

"Now tell me, Anthea please tell me what you know about me," Asked Melissa politely

"You're divorced and you ex-husband is in prison - I got this from the photo I saw earlier in your Rene's wallet. You also just came back from late lunch; you ate a hot dog, due to the fact there is a small spot of mustard on your shirt to the lower left corner and the only reason you want this flat is so you can fix it up because you enjoy doing it for fun or for work." She stated bluntly, suppressing a smile at the slight look of shock that crossed the woman's face.

"Wow… you are his daughter." Melissa said in amazement.

"And how do you know my father?" She asked calmly.

"I knew him in high school, and by the way, Mrs. Hudson, we will take this flat." Melissa replied, walking towards the door and up the stairs, not even acknowledging their presence anymore.

"Hmm, I don't know about that Melissa Adler," the landlady whispered in Anthes's ear, before both walking away to their respective abodes, her eyes lingering longer on a small discrepancy in the wallpaper before wandering up the stairs and into the empty flat.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks so much for waiting the next chapter, life got in the way, anyway please read and review.

A few months later…

John sat in his chair, quietly reading a book that he didn't particularly care for, when there was a frantic knock at the door, breaking into his concentration. _'Oh, brilliant. She's come to take me away.'_ Anthea thought as she laid on the couch, annoyed at the world for no reason and very prepared to take it out on the wall, as she had her gun already in hand. After very few seconds, a flood of long brown hair burst through the door, fully dressed to go out, but before she could get any words out Anthea fired two shots on either side of her head.

"Anthea, don't shoot at me! Come..!" Rene began before being curtly cut off by another gunshot and then rapid-fire talking.

"Come with us down town to go shopping." She supplied. She frowned and thought a moment, before continuing the thought. "This was Alex's doing, wasn't it. Yes, it was." Anthea stated upon seeing Rene's look of surprise. "And by the way the answer is no." she finished while setting the gun on the coffee table and standing up, her father's dark blue dressing gown billowing around her as she stepped on the table and stood in front of Rene.

"But…"

"No." At this point, Rene began dragging her towards the door, before deciding against that tactic and walked over to her bag.

"Now come on you can't go out in your pajamas," Rene said as she rummaged through her bag and gathered up a pair of black skinny jeans, a tight fitting purple tank top and her beloved leather jacket and through them at her, "now get dressed," she commanded as she pushed her into the bathroom. Anthea just gave her a look of confusion at being forced to do anything.

She stood there for a few moments when she got an idea. "I'll go with you if you drop me off some place for a bit," she said while getting dressed, knowing that she would accept.

"Fine! But tell me where you're going," Rene said with a sound of glee and bit of jumping around.

"I need to pay a visit to my uncle," Anthea said stepping out of the bathroom.

As Anthea walked past the kitchen table she grabbed John's phone and flipped through his contacts, found the number and memorized it. She set it back down before walking over to the coffee table and retrieving her gun, which she jammed into the waist band of her jeans before donning her leather jacket.

"Alex is going to meet us outside in 5 minutes," Rene said before dragging Anthea out the door and down the stairs, barely allowing her to look at the small discrepancy in the wallpaper and sending it an exasperated look.

Once they got outside, they saw Alex walking their way. Rene gave a friendly wave as Anthea leaned on the brick wall, ignoring the world before accepting their existence to for her needs. "Rene, I require your phone," Anthea said before grabbing it out of her pocket. Rene just rolled her eyes; Anthea began to text very quickly.

**_Hello, meet me at the big abandon building a mile past the tea shop on 9983 Maplewood Avenue. _**

**_-AH_**

A few minutes later he replied:

**_And why would I do this?_**

Anthea thought for a moment a moment and replied:

**_I asked nicely. 3:30 -AH_**

And there was no response which she took as a he'll be there. When Alex got there they hailed a cab and dragged Anthea in with them.

"So where are we going, Alex?" asked Rene brightly, ignoring the glares she was getting from her friend.

"Well I was thinking about going to a little shop that sells old books, other kind of antiques, and old news papers regarding old murders." Alex replied

"Oh cool, what do think Anthea?" Rene asked.

"It sounds like he was trying to find a store with stuff I mainly like," Anthea replied, almost annoyed at the idea.

"And do you?" Alex asked

"It's okay."

When they reached the shop, Anthea seemed to be intrigued with the old combat boots, just as Alex knew she would be. Rene was distracted by all the old clocks and books, and Alex pretended to accidently be next to the younger Holmes the whole time, while he was really just trying to talk to her and have a civil conversation. When it was time for them to go, Rene bought an old mystery book and departed with a cheery "I'll see you outside!"

"Well this was your idea to take us out on a "date", but I'm assuming that the date bit was extended to myself and not Rene, mainly because if you really wanted to go out with you would've done so an awful long time ago. So, if this is a date, at least according to one party, why don't you pay?" Anthea said with a smirk and setting a pair of combat boots on the counter.

"Well this may come as a surprise to you, but I was already planning on it." Alex said returning the smirk and setting a 50 pound note on the counter. The cashier just stood there giggling and beginning to ring up the combat boots.

"What?!" they both say at the same time, the boy glancing smiling eyes at the girl and the latter simply glaring at him.

"It's just you guys would make a cute couple," the cashier says with a smile giving Alex his change and Anthea her bag. Anthea blinked in confusion at the thought and moved onto another topic of thinking.

They hailed a cab and went to the diner (Sherlock's diner) and got three simple meals, which were all on the house. At three, they made their way to the old abandoned warehouse.

"Why do you need to go here?" Alex questioned.

"I need to visit my uncle, or if you prefer my dad's brother," She said keeping her eyes on the road to make sure they didn't pass it. Alex's eyes widened but didn't say anything. When they got there she paid the cabbie to wait at the tea shop, then to return in 15 minutes she then went into the warehouse.

A few minutes later Mycroft walked in swing his umbrella.

"Hello, Uncle."

"Now I know who your mother is and that you are actually my niece, but how was my brother even able to have sex with someone when he doesn't even know the meaning of the word?" he asked, staring down his sharp nose at her, his high class accent condescending and presence fairly terrifying.

"Funny story, that," Anthea said putting her hands together and resting he her figure tips under her chin and leaning on a wall, "Well, you see my mother was in love with my father in high school, but of course as you know he was and is a bit of sociopath; anyway, they were partnered up to do a chemistry experiment and there was a spill which released hormones in the air and I was then conceived. And yet, it was still a better love story than Twilight." Anthea stated bluntly, ignoring that fact that the story was hardly even lust, let alone love.

"Hm. That makes sense I suppose, but that still doesn't explain why you are here." Mycroft said.

"Make your deductions; as you now know, my mother loved my father and a certain event occurred three years ago, one that you're not likely to forget, so it would be more simple to figure it out than I waste my breath in telling you." Anthea said

"Oh, I know perfectly well that your mother died in a car crash after drinking too much to mourn my brother's death, but it still doesn't answer the question - why are you here if the great Sherlock Holmes is dead?" Mycroft asked once again.

Bolting up from her resting position, "He is not dead. I have heard from very reliable sources that my father is not dead, and even if he was, John wouldn't be able to throw the last thing connected to Sherlock, besides you, out on the streets. And really, the homeless network is fine and all, but it gets tiring." She said with a flick of her hand in exasperation.

"Well everyone at you old home still think you're missing, so I'll get rid of the missing persons report," Mycroft said

"You do that," Anthea sneered as she turned on her heel and walked out.

The car was just pulling up as she walked out, she got into to the car and was bombarded with the same two questions, "what happened?" and "how did it go?" Anthea's only answer was "nothing interesting, and it went as well as anything can go with my uncle." The rest of the car ride home was pretty quiet except for casual chat between Alex and Rene.

When Anthea and Rene got back to Baker St, something was obviously amiss; there were scratches around the lock as if it was picked, "Stay behind me," Anthea commanded to Rene as she pulled out her gun and unlatched the safety.

They cautiously walked up to Anthea's flat when the voice of women could be heard and John barely muttering a reply. Anthea open the door and walked in, gun raised and ready to fire, before seeing that John was in no immediate danger from the woman, dressed in a black knee length dress with crimson red lipstick, black raven like hair and pale skin.

"Hello. Hate to be rude, but who the hell are you?" Anthea said, pulling her finger away from the trigger but not lowering the side-arm.

"Well I would ask you the same but I don't think I have to." the woman replied slyly

"Who am I then?"

"You're Anthea Holmes, Sherlock Holmes' daughter," she replied "and if I might add, it shows."

"Very well. If what you say is true, how do you know? And I obviously know who you are, Miss Adler. I must say, your sister is much nicer then yourself," Anthea said, much more confident than she was earlier.

"Anthea, I know this because I know what one of Mycroft's followers likes, and my sister…well, I haven't seen her in a while," Irene states.

Right then they heard the main door open "Rene, if you're here, I'm home now," Melissa shouted up the stairs in the general direction of her daughter and sister.

"Melissa, could you come up here, please?" Anthea yelled back, her gun still raised.

"Sure, dear," she said as she began to climb the stairs. "What do you….." her eyes meet Irene's "You're alive!" she shouts, managing to sound both angry and ecstatic in the course of three syllables.

"Of course sister, thanks to the one and only Sherlock Holmes. Now, where is he?" Irene states curtly, expecting an expedient answer.

The whole room goes silent, "Oh! He's still dead to you all! Tsk, tsk. You need better sources. Well, mine tell a very different tale." Irene stated

"So do mine," Anthea replies.

"Well, then you're both wrong!" John says, getting up and walking out of the room.

"Who's this?" Irene asks nodding towards Rene.

"This is your niece, Rene," Melissa says with a smile.

"Very well, Hello Rene." Irene says with a slight smile "If I may take my leave, I have business to attend to. I'll return tomorrow. Very nice to meet you, Anthea."

"I'll make you a proper dinner," Melissa says with a smile from ear to ear as Irene walks out the door, into the London air and everyone's thoughts.

As expected by all parties, Irene did not return to dine with them the next day. In fact, none of the inhabitants of 221 Baker Street saw her again, though they all knew that she was still out there. But in frankness, they sincerely hoped that she would stay vanished; that she remain an intangible ghost that couldn't affect their lives, for better or worse.

Things continued as per usual, with Anthea irritating John and John missing Sherlock and Sherlock being the only person on everyone's minds. John knew in his heart that he was dead, no matter what sources say. He saw him fall; he stared into his dead eyes. He watched his body be carried away in a wooden casket, and his tears moistened the first handful of dirt that was thrown onto it the next day. To John, Sherlock was lost forever, as much as he hated it.

And he would hate it until he joined him.


	5. Chapter 5

**We do not own Sherlock**

AN: Please read and review, my friend who wrote this chapter is going to record herself singing the song in this chapter and should be up shortly on my page. Enjoy!

It was raining again; the soft tapping of the silver droplets against the large window was just enough to pop thoughts into John's head as he stared absently at the ever recycled water falling from the steal grey clouds. He stared, wondering about the last time he simply watched it; when he had last sat in his chair with some tea and thought about the rain. The dreary thought was instantly shattered to small, mental shards as a large banging noise erupted from the kitchen, where the younger Holmes had just violently thrown a small, metal bowl against the wall in frustration.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?" she shouted abusively at the defenseless laptop, which apparently didn't find her very frightening as it thrice displayed the "Access Denied" screen to a secure government database. "Dammit, Mycroft! You just HAD to LOCK ME OUT of your STUPID DATABANK." She continued, her fingers mercilessly pounding on the keys, trying every hacking tactic she could, even dusting off musty techniques that were hidden away in a filing cabinet on the subject that she kept in the basement of her mind laboratory.

"What are you doing?" John called from his chair, not bothering to get up or open the screen that separated the main part of the flat from the kitchen and was probably currently inhibiting her hearing anything that he was saying.

As expected, she didn't reply to John and continued to rant at her computer, though the habit of throwing things out of frustration had abated for a time. Not a long time, but long enough for John to make an actual thought in his head that was along the lines of 'its two days before Christmas. I should go out…should I take her with me? *giggle* Right. Let's not…'

"John." She said, having ceasing beating the keyboard and leaning against the doorway to the kitchen.

"Hmm?"

"What's the date?" she asked, probably having ignored whatever she was planning on saying.

"It's the 23rd of December. How could you not know that? Doesn't every kid keep a countdown to Christmas?" he asked, turning around in his chair but not rising.

"Christmas was never interesting in my household. If you could call it a household. All I've3 bothered to remember about it was that my mother drank too much, my stepfather swore at her over it, and then ended up eating each other's faces by the fire, ruining it for everyone else. Oh, and we ate too much cake." She added lightly before glaring at one of the bookshelves.

"Well, Mycroft would certainly enjoy the cake bit. Anyway, I was planning on going out and getting the holiday shopping done. Anything that needs picking up?"

"Well, yes, actually. I have a list. Well, I have a list under the condition that we'll be having guests over for Christmas Eve. Which I assume you're already opposed to, but I don't care, because this place _really_ needs a few people other than just you, me, and the landlady."

"She has a name, you know." John said, getting out of his chair and walking over to the door where his coat was hanging from a hook.

"Yes, I do know. Now, about the Christmas thing. I already have a guest list and notified everyone, so I don't suppose it really matters whether you object to it or not. So, yes. I'll be going with you. You go get us a cab; I'll be out in a tick." She concluded, walking off into Sherlock's bedroom where she had dumped her excess property for the time being.

She stuffed her clothes into a random bag she had found in his closet and threw the rest of her possessions, few as they were, on top before zipping it up and throwing it into a corner. She stepped back, making certain that nothing was out of place, before briskly marching out, slamming the door behind her.

She made her way to the kitchen where she locked her laptop and put it to sleep and grabbed her phone and firearm, setting the former into the pocket of her jeans and the latter into the waistband of them, before donning her leather coat that concealed the weapon entirely. The young woman grabbed her money clip and credit card; the latter supplied by Mycroft to be used on reasonable items, and flew out the door and down the stairs, smirking at the dark corner that cut off the ceiling, and into the quickly abiding rain.

John was already waiting in the taxi, impatiently looking around and frowning at her tardiness when the young woman climbed into the seat next to him. John gave the cabbie an address, which was a specialty grocery store a few miles away. Anthea wondered how he knew where exactly she needed to go, but quickly figured that he must have found the list she had made, mainly for his benefit, and had taken it with him.

"So…what do you need at this place?" he asked, staring at the window and appreciating the swiftly ebbing rain and quickly glowing sun that was taking its position.

"Ingredients, obviously. I'll be making dinner for our guests." She said, almost shying away from admitting that she could actually cook.

"You will? Okay then…" John said, frankly astonished that any member of the Holmes family line would ever bother with something as frivolous and, at least in their eyes, pointless as making a lovely meal from scratch. He actually giggled at the prospect of Sherlock attempting to make dinner; he would probably use beakers and Bunsen burners rather than measuring cups and the stove and the food would probably end up inedible, but it would be an amusing prospect. Then it hit John again, hard, that that never happened and never will.

"Since you haven't asked yet," Anthea suddenly said, breaking the depressing silence with her clear alto voice, "I invited everyone, up to and including Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and Alex. That's a rather pitiful list…shall I invite Sarah as well?" she asked, an evil smirk on her face as she turned and saw John's look of terror.

"Uhh...why aren't you inviting your friend Rene?" He asked, desperately changing the subject off of his ex-girlfriend.

"Fine, the topic has been dropped." She said, ignoring John's quiet murmur of thanks as she just kept on talking, "I'm not inviting Rene because she is presently in Scotland with relatives and won't be back until the New Year. Also, this is where we must take out leave." She concluded, directing it at the cab driver, who pulled over in front of the store and waited for them to get out. Anthea ran her card and paid for the ride as John emerged and started to walk to the storefront.

She soon followed, stuffing her card back into the back pocket of her jeans as she walked briskly to catch up with the shorter man.

They wandered purposely through the shelves, the younger plucking seemingly random ingredients from the shelves that would somehow coalesce into a feast with the correct technique and an awful lot of burned gas to make a good flame.

They spent nearly an hour in the store, gathering items in relative silence, before buying the ingredients they needed and departing to another shop, one that was small and full of interesting things that only one with a strange mind would find interesting. John informed Anthea that she was to stay outside and that he'll be back in twenty minutes so don't wander off and don't follow me. Naturally, she walked down the block to a coffee shop where she spent the duration of the time, returning with a half empty cup and a caffeine high.

She didn't bother attempting to deduce what John might have bought at the odd little store; she had a distinct feeling that it was a gift for her and she wanted nothing to do with spoiling her first proper Christmas present, so she was silent, though buzzing from the stimulant, during the taxi ride back to the flat.

They paid the cabbie and wordlessly entered the flat, only to find Alex there, sitting in Sherlock's chair, looking for a fuck to give.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she shouted at the boy lounging in her sitting room.

"Well, for old time's sake, I'm just gonna say that it's a drugs bust!" he said with a grin.

At this point, John stepped in. "I'm sorry…what was that?" he asked, obviously peeved at both the kid in his flat and the blatant reference to Sherlock and his first case.

"Drugs bust." Alex repeated, stubbornly ignoring John's look of anger and anguish.

Anthea walked slowly over to him, unzipping her jacket in a single swift motion before speaking. "If this is a drugs bust, where's your team?"

"Sadly, I couldn't get any volunteers from the force to come and break into my crushes house, so I suppose that this is a one-man drugs bust."

At this, John burst out laughing, mainly over the thought of Sherlock's daughter being pursued by Lestrade's son.

"What, John." She barked, demanding an explanation for his laughter.

"Hehe, nothing. Just…hehehe….this. Never mind…hehehe." He said, beginning to put away the food in the fridge. Anthea desperately hoped that he wouldn't mess with the pint of blood that was presently residing on the top shelf.

"Anyway." She said, turning back to Alex, "I'll have you know that presently, I'm rather busy. So I would greatly appreciate it if you would leave, now." She said, yanking him up, out of the chair and pushing him roughly towards the door.

"Oh, well. Rubbish drugs bust…" he added slyly, stopping and leaning against the doorframe.

"Are you deaf? I said – leave. I. Am. Busy."

"Okay, fine. I'll leave. But on one condition." He stated, holding up a hand in surrender.

"Yes. Go on."

"That invitation to your Christmas Eve get together that was sent to my dad? It extends to me, too." He said, already walking down the stairs.

"You were already invited, anyway!" she shouted after him before slamming the door loudly.

She stomped over to the couch, stepping on the low coffee table to get there, and flopped down on the soft blue leather.

"Bloody git." She spat out quietly, though secretly, she really did enjoy him showing up in such an unexpected fashion.

"So…"John began, having finished putting away the groceries and not finding the jar of blood on the top shelf, "what was that all about?"

"You heard him. Drugs bust! Because I am obviously going to follow in my father's mistakes and become addicted to cocaine. This seems like an extremely intelligent decision. Or perhaps he thinks that I'll become addicted to nicotine patches…I really don't know and have no way of finding it out short of asking him, which is not going to be happening presently." She said, rolling onto her side and pulling her legs up to her chest.

"Well…why not? You could just phone him. He has a phone, for all I know." John replied, relaxing into his chair and reaching for his cup of tea before remembering that it had gone cold whilst they were out.

"No, it's not necessary. I'll talk to him tomorrow. And when I say talk, I mean interrogate. Forcefully."

"And you wonder why a boy has a crush on you. It's probably because you say such charming things." John said sarcastically, getting a glare from the couch.

He got up to make himself a better cup of tea, leaving Anthea to sulk in confusion on the couch.

At around three in the morning the next day, John was awakened by a sound that was elicited from downstairs. It sounded almost like Sherlock's violin, which was still in its case by the window where it hasn't been touched since the fall, so the man silently shifted from his bed to his feet before walking down the stairs to the landing.

There was another note; he could now tell it wasn't the sound of a violin, but a voice. A young woman's soprano tone that was coming from the sitting room. John peered in, at first seeing shadows in the washed, silver moonlight before spying the figure by the window, quietly singing.

The voice was light but strong, with an emerging vibrato that he could tell could become very adept to singing opera in a few years time.

The figure didn't turn around, but began a new tune, one that John vaguely recognized as being from Beauty and the Beast.

_There's been a change in me, _

_ A kind of moving on, _

_ Though what I used to be, _

_ I still depend upon. _

_ But now I realize, _

_ That good can come from bad. _

_ It may not make me wise, _

_ But, oh, it makes me glad, _

_ And I! I never thought I'd leave behind, _

_ My childhood dreams but I don't mind. _

_ For now I love the word I see, _

_ No change of heart, a change in me._

The singer paused, listening to the orchestra that accompanied her if only in her mind, patiently gathering her character, waiting for the next cue, wanting to allow her voice free.

_For in my dark despair, _

_ I slowly understood, _

_ My perfect world out there, _

_ Had disappeared for good. _

_ But in its place, I feel, _

_ A truer life begin, _

_ And it's so good and real, _

_ It must come from within, _

_ And I! I never thou-_

The voice cut off abruptly.

"John?" it asked, now dropping back to her usual alto voice, leaving no trace of the shimmering soprano one.

"Oh, yes. Hi. I heard you singing…and I thought I'd come and listen a bit." He said, obviously embarrassed at being found out and also disappointed that he had been the one to pause the gorgeous concert so abruptly.

"Oh. Well…I suppose if you want to, you could listen, though I don't understand why you would. Nothing's really concert ready yet." She said, turning around, her borrowed dressing gown swirling around her legs from the extra length.

"Oh, no. It really is…lovely." He said, making his way to his chair, preparing to hear the rest of the concert.

"Well, okay then. Where was I?" she asked, mainly herself, as she scanned the sheet music in her head, looking for the correct measure number.

_And I! I never thought I'd leave behind, _

_ My childhood dreams but I don't mind!_

_ I'm where and who I want to be, _

_ No change of heart, a change in me. _

The tempo slowed, as her orchestra went into a retardondo.

_No change of heart…_

_ A change in me. _

The last note rang through the still night air as a bell might ring from the highest steeple on a blessed Sunday, only holding on with a soft, billowing vibrato that made the note so much more beautiful.

"Lovely…" John whispered, as her voice gracefully slipped into an Italian aria as he slowly fell asleep in his chair to the angelic voice of his best friends' only child.

John woke to the sun timidly poking its beaming rays through the oppressive clouds, trying to make Christmas Eve a bit more cheerful. He found he had a dull sort of pain in his neck from where he had slept wrong in his chair and soon discovered that his left foot had fallen asleep as well; lastly, he found that Anthea was not to be found in the flat, after a bit of walking around and all too much shouting.

It was after this that he saw the note hung on the hook on the back of the door saying "I'm out, will be back at noon. Clean stuff up a bit – guests won't really care, but it's a nice gesture. They'll be over at 6:30. – AH"

"Oh, great. Now I'm taking orders from my flat-mate. Again." John said aloud, knowing no one will hear, as he made himself some tea and toast before walking down the stairs and grabbing the morning paper that sat on the front stoop.

There was nothing of interest in the news; he saw that there was a murder, but blatantly ignored its existence, mainlyso Anthea couldn't blame him for not informing her about it.

He sighed. 'Like father, like daughter.' He thought, enjoying the peace of her not being in the flat. He finished breakfast and straightened the kitchen up a bit, as much as he dared, without messing up his flat-mate's experiment that she was currently running that took up the majority of the kitchen table and nearly a third of the floor.

He straightened up some random papers, the majority of which were Sherlock's, and put them all in a neat little pile on the desk in the sitting room. He dusted off the skull and cleaned the mirror before shoving all the magazines from the low coffee table onto the floor and kicking them into something that resembled a beaver den, that meaning it was a large mound with no real shape. He didn't bother vacuuming, as he couldn't remember where he had put it and wanted nothing to do with digging around in random closets. So, he deemed his cursory cleaning satisfactory and sent Mike a text, conveying that they should meet at Angelo's in an hour.

So he departed from the flat, heading to the café.

While John was cleaning, Anthea was doing something almost as mundane; she was wandering around a bustling, though cold, car park that was currently inhabited by a plethora of evergreen trees of varying sizes, genus, and species. She silently marched through the rows, watching her breath bloom into a tangible presence before her as she glanced at heights of trees, attempting to find one that would be suitable to occupy the corner near the fire and not agitate the ceiling, nor the wall that would be next to it.

She spent nearly half an hour walking through the rows of trees, breathing in the pine scented air, before finding a suitable evergreen that she then had sent to Baker Street. It was nearly a perfect cone, about five feet tall and a diameter of approximately three.

She caught a cab to a store that she thought would sell things such as this and bought several strands of sparkling white lights to decorate the tree, as well as nearly buying a star for the tip before deciding against it. She paid, left the store, and returned to Baker Street, only to find that John had gone out, leaving a note saying as such. At least he had cleaned up a bit.

She had the tree brought up to the flat and let it lean stiffly against the fireplace, while she glared at it from the doorway, trying to figure out how to make it look presentable.

"Why am I wasting my time with this?" she said aloud, almost expecting the tree or perhaps the skull to respond to her rhetorical query. She shot a look at the bookcase before walking over to the tree and violently standing it up straight, as if power of will could make it disobey the laws of gravity. As expected, the tree fell with a crunch to an unceremonious earthly rest, much to the annoyance of the young woman who was attempting to make it do the exact opposite.

The thought finally dawned on her to wrench around in the closet in search of a tree stand, doubting that one would exist in the flat, but attempting it anyway. She walked out of the flat and began violently shoving things out of the way in a random closet, looking for something that might make the tree not fall over.

Apparently, all the racket had attracted the attention of Mrs. Hudson who came and walked up the stairs, pondering what the noise could possibly be about. She had become rather fond of the young woman, as she had become rather fond of her father, and she knew about both of their eccentric habits.

"What are you doing, love?" she asked soothingly as random pieces of detritus continued to spew from the closet as they were thrown. A shoe flew past her head.

"Looking for a tree stand!" Anthea shouted back, pausing for a few seconds to examine a box before continuing to throw things.

"I have a tree stand, dear, if you need to use it."

"Really?" she replied, ceasing making shoes into projectiles and popping her head out of the closet.

"Yes, of course. You put all this stuff away and I'll go find it." She said, making her way back downstairs to her own flat.

"Thanks!" Anthea shouted in her general direction before turning to the massive pile of stuff that needed shoving back into the closet.

"Oh, brilliant." She muttered, throwing things back in from where they came.

In a few hours' time, the tree was standing and had the lights draped ceremoniously among its regal bows, with the skull adorning the top of it. The fire was crackling in the hearth, giving the surrounding people and possessions a warm and rosy glow, banishing dark spirits and making way for a cheerful feeling of giving and rejoicing.

They both stepped back from the tree, enjoying their work for a few minutes before Mrs. Hudson took her leave, promising to be back in four hours for the party, and Anthea retiring to the kitchen to make the dinner.

Cooking was not something that she would say that she enjoyed. It was just a capability, which can be annoyingly pointless at times and extremely useful at others. Today, it would be most definitely be the latter. She baked and glazed the ham, mashed potatoes, and boiled carrots, while the rolls were rising in the sitting room due to the lack of space in the kitchen. She put a bottle of sparkling cider in the refrigerator to chill as well as one of the bottles of good wine; the other she left on the counter, letting it become room temperature.

Once the ham was fully cooked, it was set on the stove to make way for the angel food cake that needed baking as well as the risen rolls.

As they baked, Anthea cleaned up the kitchen, getting herself filthy in the process, which only reminded her that she probably shouldn't wear combat boots and jeans for Christmas dinner. She owned no dresses and hardly had time to buy one, so she walked downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat, softly knock on the door.

"Excuse me? Hello. I was just wondering if I might be able to borrow one of your old dresses for dinner tonight…I don't suppose that my usual attire would be appropriate and I don't have anything else." She said, almost bashful, making certain to look like someone a kind person might help.

"Oh, yes! Of course, dear. Come in. I'll go find something; you can make yourself a cup of tea if you'd like." She said cheerily, waving Anthea into the flat and walking to a closet to search for some proper attire.

The kitchen was quaint and small, but certainly lived in and loved. She sat at one of the wood chairs in front of the table, patiently waiting for the older woman to return. And return she did, holding a black, velvet dress in her hands.

"Oh! It's lovely…" Anthea said, starting to stand with a contagious grin.

"Good! I think It'll fit you…let's find out." She said, giving her the dress and pointing her towards her own bedroom for her to change.

Upon further examination, the dress was found to be a floor-length velvet beauty, with a high, rounded front and a dipping, low back, accented by two crystal buttons, leading to a straight but flowing skirt that swirled around her legs. It fit like a glove, which was surprising itself, and was very comfortable, mainly due to the silk lining.

She walked out of the room with a grin on her face, awaiting an appraisal by the owner of the article.

"Oh…Anthea. That's beautiful…" Mrs. Hudson said, her smile reaching her eyes.

"Thank you…So…can I wear it for tonight?" she asked hopefully, giving a happy spin, making the dress flare out and twist around her legs.

"Yes, of course you can. Well…there may be one more thing." The older woman said with a wink, disappearing into her bedroom and returning with a circular box that was printed with silver swirls.

"The final touch!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, taking the lid off the box and pulling out a black, velour bowler hat with gray silk wrapped around it until the brim, with a splay of black and gray feathers adorned with a small, tasteful crystal on the side.

Anthea smiled her approval, allowing Mrs. Hudson to place the hat on her head, firmly attaching it with two hair clips and a hat pin.

"It's lovely…" she said, before accidently glancing at her watch and seeing the time. "OH! SHIT! Oh, sorry…I have to go. The cake might get burned! Thank you, and goodbye!" she said, giving Mrs. Hudson a brisk peck on the cheek before bolting up the stairs, her dress moving in such a way as to not once get in her way.

She stormed into the flat, ignoring John who had apparently returned while she was downstairs and briskly marched into the kitchen, turning off the oven in one, swift twist of her wrist and pulling open the door, thankfully discovering her cake to be perfectly browned and the rolls tender.

She sighed in relief and pulled them out with a dish towel, letting them crash onto the stove top and cool.

"Uhh…Anthea?" John asked from the doorway, slightly gawking.

"Yes? What, John?" she said turning around and walking past him directly to her adopted chair which she flopped into in such a way that didn't befit her present attire.

"Where'd the dress come from?"

"Oh. I'm borrowing it from Mrs. Hudson for dinner tonight. I figured combat boots wouldn't be satisfactory." She said, reminding herself that she had no shoes to go with the dress; a problem for another hour.

"Yes, right. So…what time did you say everyone would be getting here?"

"6:30. We have a couple hours, which is enough time for you to take care of anything that you need to and I to finish frosting the cake. In the meantime, since I only obtained one opinion on it and mine is entirely biased, I must ask what you think of the dress. Is it suitable?" she asked, standing up and walking over to him before backing up and letting him examine it.

"I'm no expert, but I think that it's absolutely gorgeous. Alex will probably not be able to take his eyes off you!" John exclaimed in his usual, sarcastic manner.

"See, I really don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Please categorize it." She said, turning around and walking back to her chair, though while doing so John saw the rest of her dress and nearly fell over.

"Uhh, how do you mean?"

"Categorize it. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Because my knowledge on the subject is practically nonexistent, while you have a rather extensive memory on the topic." She said, flopping back down into her chair, her fingers impatiently drumming on the arm rest.

"Sure. And I'd say that having his attention would be a good thing." He stated in such a manner that he might as well have been explaining primary school math.

"Well, okay then. On a different topic, where do you think I could find a pair of dress shoes?"

After much digging through closets and drawers and messing up the majority of Sherlock's previously untouched possessions, she finally stumbled upon a pair of very expensive leather heels that would fit her nicely. It was rather convenient that Miss Irene Adler had decided to stay the night all those years ago; it had provided Anthea with a lovely pair of very high heels. She tugged them on and stood, catching a glimpse of her dress in the mirror. She walked over to it and repositioned the hat to a more attractively skewed angle and examined the dress.

'Interesting…the person who made this was a professional, but not widespread. This dress was custom made for someone…probably Mrs. Hudson, given where I got the dress from. The seamstress who made it divorced her first husband for a younger man; both of her husband's smoked cigars. He, both he's, probably had a very well paying job and she did this to pass the time.' She deduced, more interested in the history of the dress than how she looked in it.

She finished her thought and walked out of the room and into the kitchen, which was a rather difficult fete for a girl who had never before worn heels of this magnitude. She hobbled over to the table where she straightened herself up and put her apron on over her dress and removed her hat, being extremely careful not to set it on anything that might do it harm.

She proceeded to begin icing the pale, angel food cake with white primarily, eventually layering on other colors until the top of the treat was a scene of a man, sitting under an apple tree, the red piece of fruit falling from its heights to hit the man on the head.

It was a depiction of Newton's supposed scene where the existence of gravity became apparent to him; he had escaped from the cities because of the plague to live in the country on a farm, where one day he sat under a tree and an apple fell onto his head.

Anthea stepped back and set down her tools, examining the cake for any discrepancies before John walked in behind her.

"Why do you have Newton on a Christmas cake?" he asked, frowning at the scene depicted in sugar.

"December 25, 1642; Isaac Newton is born. It has more to do with Christmas than antlers and silly hats, so I figured I'd do this, rather than red head adorners with random bobs at the end and pieces of bone that are affixed to the skull of a deer." She snarked, shifting the very slight lack of color on the apple.

"Oh, shame. But it's lovely." He said, walking over to a cabinet and pouring a finger of twelve-year scotch into a crystal glass.

"Okay." She said, passing that as an acceptable acknowledgment of the compliment and beginning to throw things into the sink, drowning any attempt John might have made at conversation.

He simply took his scotch and sat in his chair, looking at the tree that he never thought could possibly inhibit a flat such as his. But, of course, the skull adorning the top entirely reminded him that anything was possible; even a skull could take the place of an angel.

Anthea continued her racket in the kitchen, frantically cleaning things up after seeing that it was already six. Once she had deemed the kitchen clean enough, she removed her apron and grabbed her hat, walking as briskly as she could in her heels to the sitting room, where she stood in front of the mirror and adjusted the headpiece into a properly skewed angle. She braided back her hair and pinned it up with two pins she happened to have in her pocket, making it as secure as she could as she had no intention of redoing it. John frowned from his chair at what she was doing before deciding to change into his favorite Christmas jumper before people started arriving.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N so so so very sorry it's been so long, end of the school year and all. By the way there might be an extremely bold and big part about half way through, I have no idea how that happened, so sorry about that. As always we do not own and please please review we want to know what you think about this fanfic. **

Apparently, in the three years that Sherlock was gone, John had had the doorbell fixed and the bullet removed from the adjoining wall, allowing it to now be unendingly rung by Alex, whose father was standing behind him, attempting to get him to stop being annoying.

Anthea walked regally down the stairs, taking as much time as possible, and opened the door.

"Would you STOP that?" she asked him, slapping his hand away from the doorbell.

"Do I have a choice?" Alex replied, wrestling with her hand over supremacy for the doorbell.

"Yes; as a human being, you have a certain amount of free will. Now stop it and come in." she stated bluntly, grabbing his wrist to yank him into the foyer, his father right behind with an amused grin on his face.

She led them up the stairs to the flat, where John was sitting with his scotch and knit Christmas jumper, watching the fire dance about, fitfully sparking from dark blue heat to yellow flame to red, swaying waves of fire, all contained together in a single inferno.

"Hello, John." Lestrade said, looking around, slightly amazed that the flat looked somewhat clean before he saw the pile of papers on the floor and forgot the entire idea.

"Detective! Hello, nice to see you again." John said, raising from his chair and shaking Greg's hand.

"You too." He said, frowning at his son who was openly staring at Anthea, who was simply glaring at him.

"You look like a fish." she said at Alex, who, embarrassed, shut his mouth and looked away, his cheeks mimicking the fire as they turned bright red. John and Lestrade just looked at each other with a mutual look of surprise and amusement. Alex mumbled something along the lines of an apology before leaving for the kitchen and pouring himself a glass of sparkling cider.

It was at this point that Molly decided to make her appearance with Mrs. Hudson close behind; the two were still absently continuing their conversation that they had started when they ran into one another at the door.

"Molly!" Greg said, walking towards her to give her a hug before noticing that her hands were quite full from several bags of presents.

"Merry Christmas, everyone!" she said in her usual cheery tone, looking around the room before being slightly startled by the young woman in black who was standing with her usual straight posture by the fireplace.

"Oh, who's this?" she asked towards Anthea who walked over to the woman in three, long strides.

"Anthea Holmes; please to meet you, Molly." She said in an affable manner with a slightly forced grin.

Molly glanced nervously at John; the unspoken conversation perceived by no one other than Anthea and her keen eye.

'Did she say Holmes?'

'Yeah.'

'She's Sherlock's daughter?'

'Yeah.'

'Really?'

'…Yeah.'

All this took less than a second – a whole history and personality defined in Molly's mind in an instant.

"So, Sherlock has a daughter?" Molly asked politely very subtly putting down her bags.

"Yes, obviously." Anthea replied, effectively ending the conversation with five syllables.

The only thing that saved any sort of verbal communication was Mycroft entering the flat, umbrella in hand, smiling a forced grin at everyone.

"Good evening, and a merry Christmas." He said, still managing to throw in a bit of condescension to even the most cheerful of phrases.

"Hello, Uncle dear. Did you take care of that report?" Anthea snarked, receiving a frown of confusion from everyone, especially Alex, who had just returned from the kitchen with his glass.

"Not as of yet; I've been horribly busy I'm afraid. I'll have an intern take care of it." Mycroft replied making certain that Anthea understood how very insignificant he could make her, if he were so inclined.

"My greatest thanks, dear Uncle. Oh, and I must ask; how goes the diet?"

He shot her a disgusted look while everyone else appeared to be on the verge of uproarious laughter.

"Fine." he drawled, turning away to lean his umbrella against a stack of books.

Anthea smirked and retired to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of sparkling cider; Alex made a last second decision and followed her, straightening his cuffs on his new dress shirt and tugging on the bottom of his well fitted jacket.

"Awkward family, much?" he asked, leaning against the counter while he drank his own cider.

"You're half right; it's certainly awkward, but I really wouldn't describe the Holmes…genealogical assemblage as a family. More like a group of either very clever, very powerful, or very rich people who happen to share the same DNA." she stated blandly, grabbing her glass and leaning against the counter next to him.

"That describes it pretty well."

"Agreed." she replied as they both took a sip of their drinks.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Alex asked, nodding towards the adults speaking in hushed tones, occasionally glancing at the two of them in the kitchen.

"Well," she began, "the fact that they're sometimes looking at us tells us who they are talking about, and I'm assuming that, given how quietly they're talking, they don't want us to hear them, so probably something we won't like.

"John's taken me in for the past three months, and now he looks rather… scared at the present conversation, so I can only assume that it had something to do with an unfortunate event happening to me. Other than that, I have no idea what they might be talking about." she concluded, downing the rest of her drink and beginning to pour herself another one.

"Damn." was the only response Alex could muster, before standing up an awful lot straighter when his dad walked into the kitchen.

"So…" Anthea began, directing her words at Lestrade, "what were you lot talking about?"

"Oh. We were taking bets." he stated bluntly.

"…on?" she prompted.

"On whether or not you two will be in a relationship."

At this, Alex went entirely bug-eyed and nearly choked on his own drink.

"Well, detective," Anthea began, "technically, we already are in a relationship. As are you and my Uncle and my uncle and his umbrella and dirt with the ground and my glass with the drink held herein and the pigeon and its food. They are all in one way or another related, be socially or physically or emotionally. So, your entire bet should be moot, as of present, purely based on the fact that we know of each other's existence and are thus in a relationship of some sort."

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh, I know exactly what you meant. I just don't like the implications. Would you like some wine?"

The violent shift in topics threw the detective for a minute.

"Uhh…sure. White." he said, before shaking his head in confusion and standing patiently for his glass to be poured by Anthea's steady hand. He threw Alex an exasperated look, itself saying 'I do not see how you like this girl.' He smirked back, saying 'Sucks for you!'. His father rolled his eyes and took his glass before moving back to the living room.

"So…you don't like the implications?" Alex asked, returning to leaning against the counter.

"I don't like the implications when a detective inspector is interrogating me about it, no. Under other circumstances, I'll take it under advisement." she said, grabbing her glass and taking a sip.

"Oh." Alex said bluntly, apparently not having anything else to say on the topic.

Now, a bit of a cheer rose from the sitting room.

"Really?" Molly asked, grinning in Anthea's direction.

"Yeah, she's really amazing." John said, looking at her as well.

"What am I so good at?" Anthea said loudly from the kitchen that she was quickly walking out of, towards the conversation with Alex right behind her.

"We were talking about your singing!" John said.

"You see, that is an acceptable thing to be talking about. Taking bets on a possible relationship is, however, most definitely not and annoys me. I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop. If you don't, I will hack all social media that you are in and turn your avatar into Misha Collins and then disable any sort of uplink you could have to change it. Thank you."

It was this paragraph fired at them that made any conversation promptly cease. Except, naturally, Alex.

"Oh, so this relationship is a possibility now, is it?"

Anthea turned very red, almost to the shade of John's jumper.

"Did I say that?"

"Yes, you did."

"…Interesting. So, John. What was this about my singing?" she said, quickly turning her attention to the man sitting in his usual chair, his glass of scotch entirely empty.

"Uhh, well I was just wondering if you could sing us a bit? I'm the only one who's heard you and are really are good."

"Oh, well. News to me. Any requests?" she asked, looking around, patiently waiting as no one responded.

"Fine. It's rather American and any prospect of it would send all of England into a national crisis, but it's rather nice. So there."

She walked over to the window and looked out before turning around and facing her small audience. Her breath deepened and posture got taller as she collected her character before beginning her song.

_I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, _

_ Just like the ones I used to know, _

_ Where the tree tops glisten, _

_ and children listen, _

_ to hear sleigh bells in the snow._

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas  
With every Christmas card I write  
May your days be merry and bright  
And may all your Christmases be white She concluded the song with the held last note, letting it ring like a small, silver bell that would be struck by an oak smoking pipe. The audience reveled in the song and its passing as she took her bow with a flourish before sitting down at one of the desk chairs next to where Alex was standing. "Very nice." Alex whispered in her ear, making her flinch away, purely because she didn't appreciate having hot breath on her ear canal. "Yeah, fine. Thanks." She said dismissively, promptly ignoring everyone else's verbal praise, except Mycroft, who offered none. "So!" she began, cutting off everyone's opinion of her singing, "I made a proper dinner, but sadly we have slightly less than a proper dining table, so feel free to improvise." And with that, she promptly left for the kitchen and returned with the ham in one hand and the basket of rolls in the other, which she both set on the cleared desk before departing to bring out the bowls of carrots and mashed potatoes as well as china plates for everyone. Apart from the usual conversation that would normally occur at a Christmas dinner, there was nothing of note to be said, until Mycroft made a very loud, exclamatory praise of the cake that was brought out after dinner was finished. Everyone ate and drank and eventually began talking too loudly, being happily tipsy and not regretting it yet. Mrs. Hudson left at around nine, before anyone got too intoxicated, but everyone else lingered in the flat well until eleven before catching cabs and chartered Mercedes back to their respective abodes where they happily slept off the alcohol with drunken visions of sugarplum fairies dancing about in their dreams.  
- - - - - - - - -

"John. John. John. John. John. John. John. John. John. Get up. Get up. Get up. Now. Get up. Now. Up. Get. Now." Anthea said at the sleeping form of her flatmate. She didn't expect much of a reply; it was six in the morning and he looked entirely cheerful curled up into a ball beneath the comforter, but she pestered him nevertheless.

"Get up. Get up. Get up. Now. Up. Get. Up. Now. John. Get up." She said, now poking him in the face which got a very astute and loud reaction.

"PISS OFF." He said, rolling over and burying his disgruntled face in the pillow.

"No. You need to see your Christmas present. Get up. Now. Get up. Get up. I will start shooting at you and burning stuff. I will use all your jam in an experiment that has to do with urea. Oh, for god's sake. GET UP, DAMMIT."

At this, John sat up promptly and glared at her. "Get out." He said.

"Again, no. It's Christmas day! You need to come downstairs. Now. You will get up." She commanded, now grabbing his arm and physically dragging him out his bad, onto the carpet floor and back up again and down the stairs before letting him tumble to a stop. He glared at her again before she opened up the door and walked in.

The tree was still alight from last night; it shot silver beams of light into the dark corners of the room that the very slowly rising sun had not yet touched with its hazy rays, as well as upon the lone figure sitting in the blue, leather chair

"Merry Christmas, John."

"…What." He said, his face going instantly blank.

The figure jumped out of his chair only to sit back into it, only now with his legs pulled up against his chest.

"I already conveyed the phrase, don't make me say it again." He said in exasperated tone that managed to sound both rude and pleasant all rolled about into one.

"Explain. Somebody. Now. Because _you_ are dead! You're dead! You've been dead for the past three years! So somebody tell me what the hell is going on!" John shouted, spinning around to Anthea who did nothing more than smirk and nod at Sherlock.

"I'm not dead. Obviously." He stated bluntly, shifting his now vulnerable eyes away from John's glaring ones.

"…How?" he asked in disbelief, still attempting to comprehend the ghost sitting in the sitting room.

"I can't tell you. Well, I can tell you. But I won't. For your own good." he said blankly before leaping out of his chair over to John.

"But though I cannot tell you how, I must…apologize. For everything." Sherlock said, his eyes avoiding the shorter man's.

"Oh…well, in that case, this is still something you've had coming." he said as he brought back his fist before punching the detective in the face, making him spin in a circle before collapsing back into the chair, cheek bleeding.

"Ah, well." Anthea said, walking up to stand in between John and her father. "This has been…very interesting. John, love, you probably could have punched him harder, and I appreciate you not because I would have had to put up with his sarcastic bitching. Father dear, you really shouldn't have stood up in the first place. Now that we all have our little problems sorted and our revenge dealt, how about I make everyone some tea and you two pour your hearts out to each other. Good? Good. Back in a tic." She said with an annoyingly happy wave as she departed to the kitchen.

"Was punching me all that necessary?" Sherlock asked, glaring at the smaller, though much more angry man who was now sitting in the chair opposite.

"You know damn well that it was necessary." John said, absently plucking at the filling in the chair and looking anywhere but Sherlock.

"…why?" he responded as quietly as he dared. The question was so simple, yet held so much meaning, meaning that was not lost on the doctor sitting the few feet away.

"Because…" he began, trying to formulate his words without emotion, but the tears worked their way into his tone in the most subtle but also the most saddening way possible.

"Because you left. You left your work, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and all your bloody experiments." He said, laughing the saddest laugh at the thought of all the bits of experiment he would still find strewn around the flat, long after the equipment had been packed away.

"You just fell! You bloody well fell off the face of the planet and you just…left." He said, before whispering, "you left me."

"I didn't have a choice." Sherlock said, his repeated apology in his gaze.

"Of course you did." John fired back.

"No! I did not!" he shouted, hand flailing, "I either faked my death or would have had to watch you get killed."

John just shook his head sadly. "You've always known I was willing to die for you. I nearly did, a couple times." he said.

"And you never will again. I will not have you dying for my sake; and that is exactly why I had to jump. Because I wouldn't stand to watch you and my only other friends in the world get killed." Sherlock said, his hand drumming on the side of the chair as he stared at one of the bookcases, analyzing what books had been read in his leave; On Death and Dying, he noted, had been read at least twice.

The tension in the room was practically suffocating, though the young woman with two cups of tea ignored it as she entered and set one cup on the small table next to John and the other into Sherlock's pale hands. She smiled at the small, though still with a hint of anger, 'thank you' she got from John and promptly walked across the room, stepping on the coffee table, and collapsed onto the couch, ignoring the glares she was getting.

"Oh, don't mind me. Continue spilling your hearts out and forget I'm here." she said cheerily, turning onto her side to watch them with rapt attention.

"We're not spilling out hearts out!" they both said at her, their voices overlapping into one. Both of their heads snapped up to glare at the other one before they settled their attention back onto Anthea who looked slightly taken aback, but was smiling nonetheless.

"Ah, and what we have here is a lovely show of deadly sin of pride!" she said, sitting up and still grinning.

"Get out." Sherlock said with barely controlled rage, waving at the door.

"Ah! The deadly sin of anger! Or wrath, whichever you prefer." she continued, still smiling and now laughing, so contrasting to everyone else in the room.

"Is there anyone who can make you shut up? Because apparently neither of us can." John asked, patience ebbing ever faster.

"Oh, and what have we here! I think we have the deadly sin of envy! Oh, this is brilliant. But, yes, sorry, I'll leave you to finish you're little reunion. Father dear, I'll be in your bedroom if I'm needed, which I seriously doubt." she said at her rapid-fire pace that Sherlock kept up with, but John just barely, as she walked over the coffee table again and past John's chair to kitchen, where she disappeared into her adopted bedroom.

"Is that her general behavior?" Sherlock asked, attempting a somewhat light-hearted conversation.

"She gets it from her father." John said bluntly, glaring at him.

"Granted."

They were both silent for a minute, John glaring at Sherlock and Sherlock starring at John with the saddest eyes.

"This isn't going to work, you know." John said, taking a sip of his tea.

"What isn't?" Sherlock replied, confused.

"This! You just showing up out of nowhere after your _daughter_ shows up out of nowhere and expecting me to be fine with the whole thing! That isn't how it works, Sherlock!"

"I know."

"Good!"

They glared at each a bit more before John simply shook his head, stood and walked out of the flat entirely; down the stairs and out the door, into the bright sun that taunted his ever darkening mood.

He walked angrily for less than half a block before stopping cold by a voice.

"John." Anthea said, marching loudly toward him, the leather soles of her boots smacking the concrete loudly, making her sound much more imposing than her slight figure makes her out to be.

"How…" he asked.

"Window. Fire escape. Simple. Also, doesn't matter." she said at him, rapid fire words picking at his anger.

"What does matter," she continued, "is the fact that he care about you. Hell, you're probably the only person he really does care about! Well, besides Mrs. Hudson, but that's a different kind of love than what he has for you. So, what I'm saying, essentially," she said, her voice calming down to a warm and soft tone, so different from her usual, order giving bark, "is that, despite all he's put you through, you should forgive him. Because he really did do this for the only three people he truly cared about, and you're at the top of that depressingly short list."

"I'll forgive him. Just not today." John said with finality before walking away from her and the flat, leaving both to stand alone in the ever rare sunlight of London on a Christmas morning.

"Well," Anthea said after returning to the flat and now leaning against the door frame and looking at her father who was still sulking in the chair, "that went about as well as expected."

"Yes, I would say so. And you were not helping, by the way." he shot at her with a glare.

"I wasn't trying to." she said, taking off her coat and gloves and hanging them up on the hook on the door before walking over to John's chair and plopping unceremoniously into its soft embrace.

"So," she said, examining the tea cup that was still on the table next to her, "how are things going to be between us? Because you really don't need to bother attempting to be a father figure to me – I'm too messed up to have one that could make any impact, and let's be honest; you would be a rubbish one at that."

Sherlock just looked at her with an uncomfortable mannerism about him, his mind uncharacteristically void of any way to react, so she kept on talking.

"And honestly, we don't know each other, so it would extremely uncomfortable for the both of us if you attempted anything of the sort. John probably made some sort of decision that I should have some sort of parent to look up to, but given that it's stupid-ass decision, I've elected to ignore it. I'm assuming you have as well."

"You assume correctly."

"Lovely! Now, on an entirely different subject, I'm assuming that you would want me to kindly evict myself from your bedroom."

"I do."

"Good. I'll still stay at 221B, though, and in that matter you have no say." she stated, not giving Sherlock any time to object, as she was already standing up and walking towards the kitchen and beyond to his bedroom.

"Even I couldn't bring myself to evict my own daughter from her home." he said quietly, making Anthea stop and turn towards him, making him look up.

She grinned a joyful little half-grin before saying, "Home…yes, it's nice to finally have one."


End file.
